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Except for his clothes, it was like so many of Hoffman’s appearances at Petco Park: “Hells Bells” blaring from the speakers; spectators standing; goosebumps growing; relief en route.

And yet it was different. Much as Hoffman has grown accustomed to his fate, to grand entrances and anticipatory adrenaline, all 601 of his career saves had been earned in pursuit of team goals. This time, it was all about him — the stage set behind the pitcher’s mound, the logos painted on the grass, the new numeric monument atop the hitting background, even the commemorative pin on his lapel — and all of this structured adulation left No. 51 feeling slightly self-conscious.

“This is unbelievable,” Hoffman told the multitudes assembled for the retirement of his uniform number. “ … a dream come true … hard to put this in perspective.

“One person doesn’t deserve all this.”

Well, yes and no.

Athletes occupy a disproportionate place in our culture, too often lionized for fleeting achievements of little lasting significance. Introduced to Alexander Fleming, who had merely discovered penicillin, celebrated saloonkeeper Toots Shor revealed his misplaced priorities by excusing himself to attend to “somebody important,” New York Giants manager Bill Terry.

Yet a year after his retirement from baseball, and with maybe only a month remaining before the New York Yankees’ Mariano Rivera surpasses him as the sport’s career saves leader, Hoffman’s renown is no greater than is his regard. He is one of those athletes who has earned his adulation not only through excellence, but through example — one person whose stature derives only in part from his statistics.

“Part of the reason why he’s respected is because of how he led his life in this game,” Padres manager Bud Black said Sunday. “The work ethic, the stand-up (accountability) after a game; you know, the teammate aspect. Take away all of the statistical performances that we all have, what guys respect is how you go about it from the time you walk through the doors until the time you walk out the doors.

“That’s one thing I always tell young players: ‘Hey, listen, you don’t know how many home runs George Brett hit, what George’s lifetime batting average is or how many Gold Gloves he won.’ They’ll guess, but they don’t know. But they’ll remember how he was as a teammate. That’s how you want to be remembered: as a guy; in the clubhouse, on the plane, in the bus, when times are tough. … If you can combine the statistical performance with (that) type of character, that’s good stuff. That’s what (Hoffman) has done. He has melded the two.”

Throughout the tributes of former teammates and coaches Sunday (as well as the laudatory remarks of Ted Leitner, master of ceremonies), Hoffman conjured a better-tailored Tom Sawyer, ear-witness to his own funeral. Along with the obligatory political proclamations and the red-carpet arrivals of Hoffman’s family and baseball friends, the Padres packed a lot of poignancy and several surprises into the pregame ceremonies.

“A roller coaster of emotions,” Hoffman called it, “and it just kept crescendoing.”

The emotional highlight was at the finish, a national anthem performed via film clip by Hoffman’s late father, Ed, who sang the Star-Spangled Banner at Boston’s Fenway Park on Opening Day 1981. Efforts to entice AC/DC to perform “Hells Bells” live were unsuccessful, but lead singer Brian Johnson taped a tribute on behalf of the Australian band. Even baseball Commissioner Bud Selig provoked applause via video by saying he was looking forward to the day, “less than five years from now,” of Hoffman’s induction in the Baseball Hall of Fame.

The four Padres whose numbers had previously been retired — Steve Garvey, Tony Gwynn, Randy Jones and Dave Winfield — made a group entrance wearing vintage jerseys. Hall of Famers Rollie Fingers and Rickey Henderson also showed up, as did Hoffman’s leading beneficiary, Joey Hamilton.

(Trivia question: What pitcher had the most victories in games saved by Trevor Hoffman? Answer: Hamilton, 35.)

Former Padres’ General Manager Kevin Towers, now in charge of NL West leader Arizona, was not introduced to the crowd, but occupied a seat of honor. Before the ceremony, Towers recalled a subway ride to Shea Stadium with Hoffman on the afternoon following a blown save.

“God, Hoffy, how do you do it?” Towers asked, wondering how the pitcher could cope so well.

“What are you talking about?” Hoffman wondered.

“Last night,” Towers continued.

“What are you talking about?” Hoffman repeated.

“He had already turned the page,” Towers concluded.

Sunday, however, was a day for savoring; “Sort of like New Year’s Eve,” Hoffman said, “(but) not over in a second ’cause it just keeps getting better.’’

His tangible take included a golden pitching rubber he had previously been given, this time updated with a plaque bearing his career saves total, and a restored 1958 Cadillac convertible.

Internet dealer Tom Kumbera said he sold the car for, “just under $100,000,” and that if the Padres had not pounced, he might have sold it to a buyer in Switzerland. Normally, Hoffman said, when he listens to “Hells Bells” in the car, he does so with the windows rolled up. The convertible, he acknowledged, could blow his cover.

“I just don’t think one person deserves all this,” he reiterated. “You don’t do things for accolades. We’re here to glorify God. I don’t want to get too religious on you, but try to keep things in perspective. That’s where our focus needs to be. It’s not about how great Trevor Hoffman was, is or can be.”

Maybe not, but if any one person deserved it, it might be this person.